


A garden party in Sussex

by alexaprilgarden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fake Relationship, First Kiss, First Sex, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, John is an idiot, M/M, Platonic Bedsharing, Sexual Tension, there may be hints that the author has a kink for English cottage gardens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7246477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexaprilgarden/pseuds/alexaprilgarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs Holmes turns 75 and decides to have a garden party at home in Sussex. She invites Mycroft and Sherlock – and John. Sherlock asks John to play his boyfriend for that weekend. Lots of fluff, summer stuff and a bit of smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A garden party in Sussex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solitaerbiene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitaerbiene/gifts).



> Beta’ed by my wonderful tooselin and ennisapril. Thank you so, so much, you’re invaluable – neither this fic nor the writing would be the same without you. <3
> 
> English is not my first language. If you find any mistakes, just let me know. Thanks!

John walks down the stairs from to the kitchen. Before he even enters, he can hear Sherlock talking. On the phone, apparently.  
  
“Your birthday? A party? Since when do you celebrate your birthday? Mycroft? Oh no… Do I really have to come?” He pauses.  
  
“John?” Another pause. “Yes, well… I can bring John.”  
  
John hesitates. What is this about?  
  
“No, promise. Billy isn’t coming. No. No, no poisoned drinks either. No, of course not. No, and I won’t steal any of Mycroft’s stuff…” Sherlock is exasperated, John can clearly tell by the sound of his voice. He is pacing up and down the living room, wearing his dressing gown.  
  
“Ok. Mummy – mother – listen, I’ve got work to do. Yes. At nine on a Sunday morning. Criminals tend not to care about standard office hours. I’ve really got to go now. Yes. I’ll give you a call. Thanks. Bye. Yes! Really, I have to… yeah, bye.”  
  
Sherlock stops pacing and sighs.  
  
“What’s up, Sherlock? Your mother?”  
  
“Yes. It’s her birthday at the end of June. Since she turns 75, she has decided to have a little party.” Sherlock’s face expresses agony. “We’re supposed to stay from Friday to Sunday, and Mycroft will be coming as well.”  
  
“We are invited? That means… me, too? Your mother invited both of us?”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“Ok. Well.”  
  
“I need to think now, John”, Sherlock says through gritted teeth and lets himself fall onto the sofa. He stares at the ceiling, his hands steepled under his chin.  
  
“Breakfast? Tea? And you said there was a case.”  
  
“No. Thinking. Later.”  
  
\---  
  
Sherlock stays on the sofa for more than two hours. John has breakfast in the meantime, showers and reads yesterday’s newspaper. When he is about to go out for walk or see if Mrs Hudson is around, Sherlock gets up on his feet and whirls through the room.  
  
“John. I need you to do me a favour.”  
  
“A favour? Now this sounds as if it's something I wouldn't like.“  
  
“I need you to go to that birthday party with me.”  
  
“Ok.”  
  
“And I need you to act as if you were my… boyfriend.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“My boyfriend. Partner. Spouse.”  
  
“Yes, I know what a boyfriend is, Sherlock. No, I won’t do that. No way. And I was right, I don’t like it. Sherlock, you must be out of your mind.”  
  
“John. It’s just for two and a half days.”  
  
“But why?”  
  
“Because… I can’t possibly stand the questions of why I still haven’t got a partner, why I’m always so rude and difficult and all that nonsense. For two days. If you would come along, play my boyfriend for a few hours, everybody would be pleased. And I wouldn’t be bothered by family and friends poking at my private life.”  
  
John snorts. And shakes his head.  
  
“No. I am not doing this.”  
  
“John.” Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Please.” And he doesn’t add anything, no more wordy explanations, no more persuasion. John fights a brief, forceful war with himself and finally surrenders.  
  
“Ok. But let me tell you this. I feel _very_ bad about this. Your parents are kind people who are probably wondering how they ended up with this madman of a son. I don’t want to cause them hurt or trouble. So. Just once. And how you clean the whole mess up afterwards will be your business alone.”  
  
He breathes heavily. When he looks at Sherlock again there is something vulnerable in his eyes he can’t yet define.  
  
“Thank you,” is all Sherlock replies.  
  
\---  
  
Later that week, John happens to overhear another conversation between Sherlock and his mother.  
  
“No, we’re not coming with Mycroft. We’ll take the train and none of his helicopters. Yes. Yes.” John hears Sherlock sigh.  
  
“Yes. Ok. …where John will sleep? In my room. With me.”  
  
John chokes. He hasn’t given _that_ a lot of thought yet.  
  
“Yes. Yes, we are. For a couple of weeks. Yes, it is indeed very nice. Yes, I am happy. Yes, mummy, yes – and I don’t expect any further enquiries in my private life while we are at your place. Yes. Thank you. Ok. Bye.”  
  
John stands in the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror. _There you go,_ he thinks, _this is how you end up in Sherlock Holmes’s bed after all. At least when it comes to what his family thinks._  
  
\---  
  
And so they leave two and a half weeks later from Waterloo station, on a bright summer’s day. John isn’t quite sure what to expect from this weekend, but he likes the idea of leaving London for a couple days. As they wait for the train, he realizes that it doesn’t bother him to go to Sherlock’s parents. Initially, he wondered if it might feel strange. It's only been six months since their last trip to the Holmes’s house and the whole Christmas mess, Mary, Magnusson. But it doesn’t. Sometimes he still dreams about that chain of events, but it seems to be a lifetime away. Like a vivid nightmare he woke from months ago, yet quickly fading from his mind.  
  
What does bother him is the fake relationship, even though he has grown a bit accustomed to this weird plan. He asked Sherlock about that a few days ago. About what he wants John to do.  
  
“Nothing out of the ordinary, John. Be quite yourself. Maybe you would need to touch me more often. Show a bit of affection.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
“Let’s not make up too much. Stay as close to the truth as possible. That’s the easiest way to sell a lie.”  
  
“Ok. Sherlock, you owe me. You really do.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
_It will all be over soon,_ John thinks, _and best not to worry about it._ It seems to be important to Sherlock, since he makes such a fuss about it. John doesn’t quite understand it. But then he is quite used to not understanding Sherlock. He looks at Sherlock who is intently typing away on his phone. Probably ordering the homeless network to keep him up to date with the latest London crime activities. Or insulting Lestrade via text. Suddenly he feels grateful that Sherlock is there. In his life. That he gave him something to go back to, to hold onto after what happened. He may still be a madman, but most of all he is the person he needs most in the world.  
  
John’s thoughts are interrupted by the noise of the train. During the ride, John writes something about their last case on the blog while Sherlock stares out of the window for most of the time. They arrive in the Holmes’s small home town and they take a cab from the station to the house of Sherlock’s parents. Sherlock’s ability to summon a cab out of nowhere seems to work everywhere.  
  
When they get off the cab John sees a curtain on the kitchen window move. A second later, Mrs Holmes opens the front door. She is so happy to see Sherlock, John realizes. She hugs him tightly, kisses him on both cheeks. When Sherlock manages to escape from her, she looks at John. She hesitates for a moment and finally opens her arms to give him a slightly more official hug.  
  
“John. I am so happy you’re here.”  
  
“Hello, Mrs Holmes. Thanks for the invitation.”  
  
“Margaret, please.”  
  
“Ah. Ok. Margaret, then.”  
  
Sherlock has vanished into the house. John hears him shout something about Mycroft putting his sodding umbrella out of the way. Mrs Holmes – Margaret – rushes into the house, still smiling hugely.  
  
“Marcus? Oh, where are you again? Sherlock’s here, and John! Come and say hello to the two of them,” Mrs Holmes calls into to hallway.  
  
“Hello John. Nice to see you again. How are you doing?”  
  
“Quite well, Mr Holmes. Thanks. And you?”  
  
“Call me Marcus. Ah, you know, age. Gives you some pain every now and then. But I’m fine. Where’s Sherlock then? I’ve seen him stomping through the living room. He was saying something about Mycroft… ah, there is my boy.” He smiles at Sherlock, who is just coming back to the hallway and pats him on his shoulder.  
  
“Dad. Hello. How are you.”  
  
“Just told John. Getting older, but fine. Now… I think your mother has prepared something to eat. She has decided we are going to have dinner in the garden. Let’s give her a hand.”  
  
John doesn’t quite believe his eyes when Sherlock reluctantly follows his father. John takes his bag, places it in the hallway and goes to the kitchen as well.  
  
Sherlock and Marcus are taking plates and glasses outside while Margaret takes a large casserole with lasagna out of the oven.  
  
“Oh John, would you just take this? Be careful, it’s hot. Here, take the oven gloves...”  
  
“Yeah. I take it outside, right?”  
  
“Yes, please. Just through the living room. Watch out, there’s a small step when you go out into the garden.”  
  
John does as he is told. When he enters the garden the others have laid the table. John puts the lasagna down. Marcus hurries inside, murmuring something about fetching water and Mycroft.  
  
“So. I guess we should get started with that boyfriend thing, Sherlock.”  
  
“Yes, we probably should. Just remember, act normal... but more affectionate.”  
  
“I’ll try, love.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I said ‘love’. Terms of endearment are quite common among couples, in case you haven’t noticed.”  
  
“Oh dear.” Sherlock sighs. “A burden I have to bear.”  
  
Sherlock’s parents come out of the house and, a few moments later, Mycroft. John takes a look around while the Holmes’s start arguing about which wine to have with the lasagna. John doesn’t listen, he is too busy taking in the garden. It is a beautifully arranged cottage garden and larger than John had expected. The lawn is interrupted by groups of bushes, tall grass and little walls. They divide the vast garden into many secluded corners and hidden niches, places John didn’t see from the house. Whoever handles this garden must be a great lover of flowers and plants. There are so many flower beds it almost seems a bit chaotic. There are blossoms everywhere, the air is loaded with different scents and the humming of the bees. _A place for a garden party indeed._ John has to think of his parents’ shabby, shady backyard where his mother tried to grow a few sad strawberries every year.  
  
After they have finally agreed on the wine Margaret urges them to sit down (“John, Sherlock, you two sit in the bench together, and we take the chairs”) and to start eating before the food gets cold. It feels weirdly normal. John doesn’t quite allow himself to feel as part of the family yet, but… it’s just _so_ normal. A bit of bickering, a bit of talking, well-known jokes that are told over and over again. Equally well-known teases and quarrels, probably uttered just as often. The secret head of the British Government, the World’s Only Consulting Detective and their parents, gathered around a dinner table. And behaving quite a lot like the standard, not overly dysfunctional British family. Which his family wasn’t. John finds himself a bit… envious. _But well. I can play the son-in-law for a weekend. Why not make the best of it._  
  
The meal passes and John tries to spice it with a few “Would you hand me that water, love?” and similar sentences. (That special dialogue went on with “There you go. Some wine as well?” – “Yes please, sugarnut.” This actually made Sherlock choke on his food and Mycroft’s jaw drop.)  
  
Sherlock even lets his hand rest on John’s when he is finished with his lasagna. This stirs a bit of a butterfly-ish feeling in John’s stomach, but he decides to goddamn enjoy the whole thing and not to think too much about every gesture and its effects. Their well-played affection grants them a few raised eyebrows from Mycroft, a tender smile from Marcus and shining eyes from Margaret. _Mission accomplished,_ John thinks and smiles smugly.  
  
Later on, when the sun finally starts to set, the leftover food and the dirty dishes are taken to the kitchen and a second bottle of wine is opened. Sherlock takes off his shoes, sits sideways on the bench and puts his feet onto John’s lap. John absent-mindedly starts massaging them, which makes Sherlock groan in surprise and delight. And this stirs the butterflies in John’s belly once more. They do not seem to get any rest this night. Margaret lights a few candles and they sit in the garden until it gets close to midnight. Marcus starts yawning first and he and Margaret leave after a while. Mycroft takes his time to finish his wine and then goes to bed as well. When John and Sherlock are on their own John says, “You do actually have a nice family. And you grew up in a beautiful place. You never tell.”  
  
“You think so?”  
  
“Yes. Yes, I do. Pretty lovely, all that.”  
  
“And your family… wasn’t?”  
  
John remains silent for a minute. He stops massaging Sherlock’s feet _(Why am I still doing this anyway? Everybody’s gone)_ , clenches his hand and simply says, “No. Not very much.”  
  
Sherlock senses the tension behind those words and doesn’t insist on explanations or details. “Let’s go to bed, John.”  
  
\---  
  
Their bags are still in the hallway. Sherlock takes his and shows John the way to his old bedroom on the first floor. John is both completely surprised and not surprised at all to find Sherlock’s room look like a junior version of 221b. It is not as messy, but it resembles their home in London a lot. Books and things are stuffed into the shelves, there is a large desk, pictures on the walls, a similar style of furniture. John has no difficulties imagining a younger version of Sherlock doing his homework on that desk or lying on this bed, lost in thoughts. Playing the violin next to the window.  
  
“I’ll just be in the bathroom. Make yourself at home,” Sherlock says, pulling John out of his thoughts.  
  
“Yeah, sure.”  
  
John puts his bag on the floor, takes a t-shirt and his pyjama bottoms out and gets changed. He folds his clothes and puts them on the chair (military habit). He looks at the book shelves while Sherlock is probably brushing his teeth. John recognizes some books on chemistry, medicine, forensics and science. There are a few old school books and even a children’s book on pirates and a copy of "The Beekeeper’s Handbook". Violin notes, and even some CDs. Right above Sherlock’s surprisingly big bed hangs a picture of a bee like the one in his bedroom in 221b. Next to it there is a fading shadow from a picture that used to hang there. It was probably the one to be found in Sherlock’s bedroom in London.  
  
Sherlock returns, points to the narrow hallway and says, “Second door to the left. If you take the first door, you’ll be in Mycroft’s room. Better watch out.”  
  
John takes his time to brush his teeth and wash his face. He looks at himself in the mirror. He takes off his shirt and looks at his scar. _I am getting old. Soon._  
  
Back in Sherlock’s room he finds Sherlock spread on his bed, reading one of his old science books. He mumbles something about how wrong it is from today’s point of view. When John stands in front of the bed, somewhat lost, Sherlock says without looking up, “Do it, John.”  
  
“Sorry? Do what?”  
  
“Stop thinking about it and come to bed. There’s enough space for both of us.”  
  
John shrugs his shoulders and surrenders. _Not that I have a lot of options anyway._ He lies on his back, a few centimetres from Sherlock’s arm.  
  
“Good night, Sherlock.”  
  
“Good night, love.”  
  
John’s heart skips a beat and then reality crushes in like a cold shower.  
  
“Git.”  
  
“Idiot. But I’ve had you for a second.”  
  
“You didn’t. I’m sleeping now.” John closes his eyes affirmatively.  
  
He hears Sherlock snort, it might be a laugh. It takes him a while to relax. He listens to Sherlock’s calm breathing and his whispered corrections of the outdated science book. Eventually his eyelids get heavy and he drifts off to sleep.  
  
\---  
  
John wakes early. It is just around five o’clock, when he opens one eye to check his watch. It is already light outside, he hears the birds chirp through the open window. It takes him a minute until he remembers where he is. _Yes. Sussex. The Holmes’s house. Sherlock’s bed. God, I’m in Sherlock’s bed..._ He shifts his head. Sherlock is asleep, lying next to him on his side, facing John. His curls are wilder than ever. His face is soft and relaxed and he looks a lot younger. His legs are entangled in the duvet. His old t-shirt is crumpled and shifted upwards, John can see his belly and his navel and soft ginger hair. John can’t help but notice a semi-hard bulge in Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. _So he does have some kind of sex drive after all._ John is far too tired to be unsettled by that realization. He yawns. _It’s so early. Best get some more sleep._ He dozes off again.  
  
Much later a noise from the hallway wakes him again. Sherlock’s gone, but the bed still smells like him. He finds a single dark, slightly curled hair on the Sherlock’s pillow. He runs his finger over it. _Christ, what am I doing?_ John hears steps and talking in the hallway, it sounds like Margaret is giving orders to someone. John gets up and takes a look out the window. When he is about to grab his clothes and sponge bag, Sherlock opens the door.  
  
“Good morning John. Did I wake you when I got up?”  
  
“No, not at all. Think I just heard something downstairs.”  
  
“Yes, mummy is making an awful lot of noise, just making sure no one stays in bed too long on her big day.”  
  
Sherlock smiles. He looks a bit softer round the edges, John thinks. As if some of the intimacy from sharing a bed and being so close while sleeping still lingers between them.  
  
“I’ll come downstairs in ten, I’ll just have a shower.”  
  
“Take your time. Your usual bathroom time on a Saturday morning is exactly 18 minutes. No need to hurry here.”  
  
“Do we have a gift, actually? Christ, I can’t believe I forgot about that.”  
  
“Yes we do. Bought her a book on the field of mathematics she was working in before she had Mycroft and me. She’ll love it.”  
  
John sighs in relief. Sherlock gets the gift from his desk and walks down the stairs.  
  
Some time later (which might be 18 minutes after all), John enters the kitchen. Sherlock and Marcus are having breakfast and are reading the newspaper, while Mycroft types something on his laptop.  
  
“Oh, hello John. Tea? And I’ve got some toast. Take a seat.”  
  
“Yeah, thanks. That would be lovely. Good morning Mycroft.”  
  
“Oh, good morning, John. Did you sleep well? Everything comfy and cozy, I expect?” Mycroft asks with a greasy smile. John doesn’t miss the mockery about him sleeping in his brother’s bed. Sherlock hisses dismissively and raises his eyebrows.  
  
“Yes, everything was. Quite well.” John says between two bites of toast. “So. What are we up to today? The party starts in the late afternoon, right? Can we help you with anything, Marcus?”  
  
“Well, maybe. Marge has everything organized with the catering service, but she might need a hand. Mycroft, you could join the boys.”  
  
“Oh, I’m afraid Mycroft has work to do. Ordering his little minions to poke their noses into other people’s lives, for instance,” Sherlock snarls.  
  
“Not quite, brother dear. But I actually will be occupied with some business until the festivities begin. If you will excuse me.” Mycroft takes his laptop, his cup and leaves for the living room.  
  
At that moment Margaret calls from the garden. “Myc, Sherlock, John, I do need your help out here.”  
  
A van has unloaded an impressive number of chairs, folded tables and something that looks like white cloth and metal sticks. The driver is making wordy excuses for not being able to carry them into the garden. Margaret waves at him in dismissal and instructs John and Sherlock where to put them.  
  
Sherlock starts carrying some chairs to place Margaret has obviously pointed out. John does just the same. He hears Sherlock’s mother shout, “Oh Mycroft, now leave your laptop, come outside, roll up your sleeves and _get going!_ ” A minute later Mycroft, looking disgruntled, does actually come to help John and Sherlock.  
  
This is how they spend the next hours – carrying chairs and tables to their assigned places and setting up a number of open white tents. A second van arrives, delivering flowers and decoration, plates and cutlery. There is a short discussion between the driver (“Three guys from my team are still stuck in Portsmouth!”) of the – as Margaret puts it – “lousiest party service in the UK”. It ends with a threat to have a word with his boss on Monday morning. When Sherlock, John and Mycroft are finally done, there are groups of furniture in all the lovely spots in the garden. The tents are set up, everything is prepared for the food to be delivered. Margaret looks pleased. “Boys, why don’t you have some of the leftover lasagna. I’ll heat it up for you. It’s way past lunch-time already.” They eat outside. When John just feels like dozing off after the meal, Sherlock suggests going for a walk until the party begins.  
  
“A walk actually sounds quite nice, Sherlock. The weather is fine. Let’s do that,” John agrees.  
  
He follows Sherlock to a small garden gate. From here, a narrow path leads past a few trees and meadows. During the ten minute walk, John feels the light breeze getting stronger, he hears doves cry and waves he hasn’t heard before. The lush, rolling landscape turns into something rougher and more wind-blown. The meadow ends abruptly in a steep cliff. Sherlock stops and looks at the sea, blue-green-grey like his eyes.  
  
“This is... amazing. So close to your parents’ house. Surely didn’t expect that.”  
  
“Yes, it is. Would you like to go down to the sea?”  
  
Sherlock guides him a steep way of steps carved into the cliff down to the beach. Once they arrive at the beach he takes off his shoes and rolls up his trousers.  
  
“This is like holidays, Sherlock. We should visit your parents more often. And we should have brought swimming trunks and towels, it’s a perfect day for swimming.”  
  
“Oh, just go ahead. There’s no one around.” Sherlock smiles in a way John can’t define. _Yeah. Except for you._  
  
Even though the idea is tempting – a swim would be just great right now – this is just too much. Swimming naked in front of Sherlock who is pretending to be his boyfriend and with whom things have gotten weirdly heated recently… _no._  
  
“Well, let’s just walk a bit. Are there caves over there?” John says, pointing at a few cliffs a few hundred feet from them.  
  
“No caves. But I used to play there a lot.”  
  
“Bet they made a great pirate’s ship or fortress.”  
  
“Yep. There might even be some treasures buried in the sand. I haven’t been there in ages. Let’s go.”  
  
They go to the cliffs, talking about pirates and the stuff they used to play as children. They climb up the cliffs.  
  
“They seemed a lot bigger when I was small,” Sherlock points out. He looks at the sea.  
  
“Yes, it’s usually like that. But the view is beautiful.” John sits down on the flat top of the cliff. After staring at the sea for a while he feels sleepy and lies down. Sherlock seems to be lost in his thoughts.  
  
\---  
  
A dove’s cry wakes him. He can’t tell how long he has slept, maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour. Sherlock is gone, John finds him down on the beach, throwing stones in to the sea. How different he looks here, John thinks. Without his Belstaff, but with wind-blown hair and sun in his face. _It’s not just the way he looks, he is a bit different here. Or maybe it’s just this fake relationship thing, maybe I’m seeing him differently now…_  
  
John is at the same time absolutely relaxed and buzzing with anticipation. An anticipation that reminds him of the way he felt when he went on his first date as a teenager. But he doesn’t give it it much thought, some part of him is very well-trained at denying the obvious.  
  
\---  
  
When Sherlock and John return in the late afternoon, they find a few friends of Sherlock’s parents in the garden. Some waiters are carrying trays full of glasses with white wine and sparkling water.  
  
“Oh look, the first guests have arrived, Sherlock. Party’s starting. Everything looks really lovely now.”  
  
“Yes, mummy has put decades of planning into this. I hope she’ll be satisfied. I’ll just change my shirt. Be back in a minute.” And Sherlock heads towards the house.  
  
John takes a glass of water from one of the waiters. He wanders slowly through the garden when he hears Sherlock’s father.  
  
“Oh, John. You’re back. Where did you go?”  
  
“We’ve been at the beach, just down there, at the cliffs. I had no idea your house is so close to the sea.”  
  
“Yes, it’s quite impressive. The boys loved it when they were kids.”  
  
They walk a bit. In a corner, almost covered by a hedge, John spots something.  
  
“Are those bee hives? Do you have bees?”  
  
“Sherlock did. He was fascinated with them, even as a child. I think… yes… we got the bees when he started going to school. Had wanted them for years! We simply couldn’t say no anymore. When he moved out, we didn’t go on with them. He spent hours and hours with his bees.”  
  
“What was he like, as a kid? Sherlock.”  
  
“Oh, he was far too clever for his age. And far too vulnerable. Marge was always so worried about him, being so observant and so sensitive. And he loved Mycroft. Admired him, really.”  
  
“Mycroft?” John laughs in disbelief.  
  
“Yes, they were inseparable for a few years. It changed… when Sherlock was in puberty, I think. We never really figured out what happened between those two. Only snarling and bickering, just like today. Can’t even spend ten minutes in the same room without starting a fight.”  
  
Marcus shakes his head. John can’t tell whether there are sad or happy memories shadowing his eyes.  
  
“You know, they still love each other.” Marcus’s voice gets lower. “Mycroft never let him down. When Sherlock started taking drugs, it was usually Mycroft who took care of him. When we learned about it, he must have been doing that for quite a while. During uni. Things got so difficult for him and it is hard when you can’t tell what’s worrying your child. We felt so helpless. We have gotten so many phone calls with bad news. From his teachers, sometimes from a few friends, but mostly from Mycroft. Ever since, we never stopped being nervous when our older son calls us. We’re still so afraid of losing Sherlock, John.”  
  
He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and blows his nose. John feels a lump in his throat.  
  
“I know… what this feels like. I really do.” John says and swallows hard.  
  
“I know, John, I know. We are grateful that you’re there. With Sherlock. You always seem to… stabilize him.” Marcus inhales deeply. “Enough of that now. John. This is a happy day and I shan’t add our worries to your own, son.” Marcus pats his back and smiles. “I will get us some of that wine now. Let’s see what Marge is spending a fortune on then.” He walks off and fetches two glasses of white wine from a waiter.  
  
“There you go. How do you like it, John?"  
  
The wine is cool and tastes light and fresh, just perfect for this warm sunny day.  
  
“Ta! I don’t know a lot about wine, Marcus, but I like it very much.”  
  
“That’s what I think. Come on, let me introduce you to some of these folks, John.”  
  
He walks to a group of chatting elderly people, puts his hand at John’s shoulder and says, “This is Dr John Watson, Sherlock’s boyfriend. Please don’t scare him away, right? John, these are Ruth, Sibyl, Henry, Violet, ...” Sherlock’s father adds a few more names. John looks into a lot of smiling faces and shakes a number of hands. The women introduced as Ruth and Sibyl stick out a bit. Ruth is small and radiates so much kindness and something like... wisdom, it’s almost tangible in her presence. Sibyl is a bit taller and her eyes sparkle with thoughtfulness.  
  
John gets right into some small talk. People want to know if he is medical doctor, where they live in London and the like. From the corner of one of his eyes John sees Sherlock walk past just a few feet away. John turns his head. Sherlock has showered, his hair is still slightly wet. He wears that purple shirt and – even for his standards – surprisingly tight charcoal trousers. To be frank, he looks breathtaking. John even thinks he can smell his expensive and, well, delicious aftershave. _Breathtaking indeed. Maybe it will be quite fun playing his boyfriend for a night,_ John thinks. _I could have ended up with a less handsome man by my side._ Sherlock talks to someone, sipping on a glass of wine. Then his eyes meet John’s and a wave of heat rises from John’s stomach. Sherlock smiles at him enigmatically and carries on his conversation. John engages in small talk for a few more minutes and then excuses himself. But when he looks for Sherlock, he is gone. He walks through garden some more, talks to a few people and has another glass of wine. In one of the tents, he meets Margaret.  
  
“John! Have you tried the food?”  
  
“No, not yet, but that does sound like a great idea.”  
  
The food is marvellous. There is a buffet with finger food. John can’t tell what it all is, but there are loads and loads of different things that look wonderful. And none of them bear the slightest resemblance with their usual take-away stuff in London.  
  
“It’s really good, Margaret. Sherlock says you have spent a lot of time organizing this party. It’s very nice. I like it.”  
  
“Thank you, John. Oh, Sherlock is exaggerating. Just a few phone calls and persuading Marcus a bit. He isn’t into big parties very much, you know.” She smiles. “Did Marcus introduce you to some of those guys?”  
  
“Yes, he did. He was very kind. Your guests are lovely people.”  
  
“Yes, I didn’t want to spoil my birthday with annoying idiots.”  
  
The tone of her voice and the choice of her words sound so much like Sherlock it makes John laugh. _Incredible, absolutely incredible._ John has some more food and his empty wine glass is miraculously replaced by a fresh one. He makes a few jokes with his pretend-to-be mother-in-law and enjoys himself so much he almost forgets he was looking for Sherlock.  
  
The garden has filled with people. Margaret is being hugged and given presents. And she has to take care of her growing number of guests. “Excuse me, John, dear, I just have to get rid of all this nonsense,” she whispers as she takes an armful of sophisticatedly wrapped boxes and envelopes and vanishes through the crowd.  
  
“Oh, for god’s sakes, stop it, Mycroft...” Over the laughter and talking John hears snatches of a conversation between Sherlock and Mycroft. So he takes his glass of wine and tries to find out where it comes from. The way is blocked by a table and a group of ladies that might or might not be the girls from Margaret’s bridge club.  
  
When he takes the other way around, he almost bumps into that woman with the wise eyes.  
  
“Oh God, I’m so sorry... Ruth?”  
  
“Yes, right! And you’re Sherlock’s John, aren’t you?”  
  
“Yes, I am.” John can’t help but sound a bit proud and pleased with himself.  
  
“So. You’re doing fine, the two of you?”  
  
“Yes. Yes, we are. Really fine, actually.”  
  
“I guess it’s somewhere near normal, living as a gay couple in London.”  
  
Now that’s something John has always been a bit afraid to think of... Given the fact that he had been thinking about what it would be like to be more than flatmates with Sherlock. Maybe even fantasizing about it.  
  
“Well. Yes. Most of the time. There are some idiots, you know. But actually, well. It’s good. Yes.”  
  
Ruth’s eyes travel off to Sibyl, who talks animatedly to Marcus.  
  
“You know, John, Sibyl and I have been in love since we met at that dormitory of Waterperry Gardening School. I have seen times that were quite different. It makes me so happy to see things have changed.”  
  
John is astonished. “You and Sibyl? Wow. It’s been a long time then, right?”  
  
Ruth smiles. “More than fifty years. And lesbians weren’t exactly a topic that was openly discussed back then. I didn’t even know what was happening to me. Unable to take my eyes off that tall, slender beauty. She was a bit intimidating. And fascinating. It took me ages to find out. I never thought I might be interested in girls.” Her smile turns into giggles and John can see the young girl she used to be.  
  
“We spent every minute together. And once, when I thought I had lost her, I realized I never wanted to be without her again. That I wanted her. ‘To hell with conventions and decency,’ I told myself and kissed her. And it seemed to be just the thing she had been waiting for. Oh dear, that was a long time before you were even born.”  
  
“And then? How did you go on? How did make your life together?”  
  
“Oh, at the Manor House in this town they were searching for two new head gardeners. Just when we had finished gardening school. It’s part of the National Trust, you see, with that huge park and garden. We applied and we got the jobs. The Lady knew exactly what we were. And she supported us, being quite liberal, eccentric and headstrong. Nobody ever openly dared to say anything about us living together. Well, we couldn’t kiss on the street, but we had our life. Together. That was a lot.” Ruth sighs.  
  
“We got to know Marge and Marcus at that time. They were among the first friends we’ve made here. And being as clever as she is, it took Marge less than two minutes to figure out we were lovers. I guess she has gotten into more than one fight defending us here. They are amazing, the two of them.” She pauses. John remains silent. All the things she said have set something in motion inside him... but he is just a bit too tipsy to point out what it is.  
  
“And so is Sherlock. I have known him since he was little. He is a brilliant, beautiful man,” Ruth adds.  
  
“Oh fuck, he is.” John is grateful that for once he doesn’t have to watch what he says, because in the eyes of everybody else here, he has every right to say just this.  
  
“And quite dedicated to you, judging by the way he looks at you.” Ruth nods in Sibyl’s direction, who is talking to Sherlock now. John can hear their laughter and Sherlock casts a look at John that makes him blush.  
  
“I think I’ll just go over, ok?” John says when he has recollected his thoughts enough to speak in proper sentences again.  
  
“You do that, dear.”  
  
But when John takes a few steps in Sibyl’s direction he finds that Sherlock has vanished again. He shrugs and smiles at Sibyl.  
  
“I think he wanted to get something to eat,” she says helpfully.  
  
John heads to the tent with the buffet. The finger food has been expanded by an excellent range of desserts. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. But Mycroft stands in front of the table. He is eyeing a bowl of mousse au chocolat and a lemon cream tart like a child that is trying to decide on which one of his christmas presents should be unwrapped first.  
  
“Mycroft.”  
  
“John. Enjoying yourself?”  
  
“Yes. And you?”  
  
Mycroft’s phone beeps and Mycroft takes a short look at it. His eyes shine for a split second when he reads the text.  
  
“Still busy saving Britain?”  
  
“No, that actually was... a private message.”  
  
“Oh. From whom?” _God, why do I ask these things. No more wine now._ But Mycroft answers.  
  
“From Greg. Greg Lestrade.”  
  
“Oh. Right.” John raises his eyebrows and decides to swallow that sentence with ‘happy announcement’ and ‘end of the week’. He just squeezes Mycroft’s lower arm and smiles. He leaves Mycroft to his dessert and tries to find Sherlock.  
  
\---  
  
The bright and sunny afternoon has turned into a warm evening, the light changes and the shadows grow. The scent of the flowers and bushes hangs even heavier in the air. Torches, candles and paper lanterns are being lit and set up an atmosphere like a midsummer night’s dream.  
  
John wanders to one of the other tents, just planning to ask Marcus if he has seen Sherlock. Instead he is urged to tell some stories from his blog. Apparently his blog is being read even by elderly folks in the countryside. When John is just about to summarize Sherlock’s deductions from their case in Dartmoor a few years ago, he stops mid-sentence. Suddenly he can smell Sherlock’s aftershave. Looking around to locate him, he hears Sherlock’s voice summoning him in a whisper, “John, come.” Just these two words. John turns around, but he only sees Sherlock’s back vanish in yet another group of cheerful people. “Er, right. You know, actually you can read it all on the blog. I think I have to go now... just excuse me,” he distractedly manages to say when he leaves the small bunch of people gathered around him.  
  
He is magnetically drawn to Sherlock. This time, he doesn’t lose sight of him completely. He sees his dark curls above other people’s heads almost all the time. Sometimes Sherlock seems to look back to see whether John is still following. Sherlock slowly moves through the groups of guests, but fast enough to prevent John from catching up. They have almost meandered through the whole garden, when Sherlock is gone. John looks around for a few moments. He even peeks along the narrow path where Sherlock has taken him to the sea earlier. He is nowhere to be seen. John turns around, the garden stretched between him and the Holmes’s house. It is quite dark by now. He hears his name, Sherlock is calling him. He stands just a few feet away, next to a small pond John hasn’t noticed before. _How many secrets does this garden have after all?_  
  
John walks over to him and smiles. “God, Sherlock. You’re flirting with me. Teasing me.”  
  
“Yes. I am supposed to be your lover, John.”  
  
Sherlock’s voice has never sounded like this, dark and rough and seductive. John feels a wave of heat rush from this stomach to every cell of his body, leaving him incapable of speaking or thinking or breathing.  
  
The next thing John realizes are his lips touching Sherlock’s. An uncontrollable amount of want and need rises inside him. _I’m kissing Sherlock, ooooh finally, right here, at the garden party... Oh my God._ He breaks the kiss, shocked by his own actions. When he looks around, he realizes that absolutely no one cares. Sherlock looks at him in anticipation. His seductive manner is gone, he is unguarded and open. _Oh fuck it,_ John thinks, leans forward and kisses him again. This time, Sherlock dares to kiss back. He tastes like wine, he smells amazing and he feels so indescribably good that John is sure he has never felt this much at once. The way Sherlock’s tall, slim body feels on his, pressing in ever so slightly. All the achingly familiar things about Sherlock are so close. His hair, his hands, his closed eyes, his collarbones. The curve of his back under John’s hands. Sherlock’s tongue brushing against his, careful at first, then more daring, more wanting, teasing, enjoying. _God yes…_ is all John can think. _Oh God yes._  
  
After a span of time which is impossible to measure of quantify, they break their kiss, breathing heavily and smiling. Sherlock shyly takes his hand. “Let’s go… inside.” John would have thought he couldn’t get any more aroused, but Sherlock proves him wrong. Sherlock’s hand slips from John’s hand to his waist. John is high on endorphins and on being close to Sherlock. Perfectly behaving like a couple in love. _What are we, then?_ They walk slowly through the garden, passing the other guests, smiling. Even talking a bit, when some of the guests address them. When they pass Ruth, she doesn’t say anything but just briefly and lightly squeezes John’s hand. They are floating through the people and no one stops them.  
  
Once they get into the house, they walk to the hallway, shutting the door behind them. The house is silent except for their breathing, which is turning more and more into a panting. John tenderly pushes Sherlock against the shut door, kissing him again. Sherlock moans into his mouth. After a few heated minutes, John asks, “Sherlock. What are we doing here?”  
  
“Well.” He swallows. “Not _faking_ anything. Is that… ok for you?”  
  
The way Sherlock’s voice is shaking takes the last faint bit of doubt or hesitation from John. Sherlock isn’t half as secure as he tries to be and obviously he is serious about this.  
  
“Christ, it is, Sherlock... it is.” It is ok for him, much more than ok. He is a bit puzzled when he fully grabs the situation. _I have been in love with him for ages. And I do want us to be more than just flatmates. With all the consequences. To hell with conventions and decency indeed._ He hears Sherlock exhale. Inhale. Exhale. His heart must be racing. He takes Sherlock’s hand and says, “Go upstairs?”  
  
\---  
  
Once they are in Sherlock’s bedroom, they lock the door. John huffs a whispered laugh.  
  
“Why are you laughing?”  
  
“It feels like the first time you have sex as a teenager… in your parents’ house, when no one is home.”  
  
“Locking the door to make sure your brother doesn’t walk in on you.”  
  
“Yes. Really kills the mood.”  
  
He takes Sherlock’s face in his hands, pulls him near and kisses him again. He draws the kiss out playfully. Sherlock’s hands start wandering over his body. He feels Sherlock’s thumbs over his nipples and suddenly becomes aware of too many layers of cloth.  
  
“Undress me, Sherlock.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock’s voice is that low rumble again, driving John mad.  
  
John closes his eyes. He concentrates on the light strokes of Sherlock’s hand on his chest as he unbuttons his shirt. Sherlock runs his hands over his bare skin, his stomach. When one of his hands touches his collarbones and shoulders, his other hand runs from his pelvis up along his spine. John shudders. These slender, elegant hands, which he has secretly admired countless times when he watched Sherlock playing his violin. They are touching his skin, caressing him, down his spine again, his lower back, his ass… Sherlock tightly grabs his cheeks and John leans into the touch, moaning. He can’t help but touch Sherlock as well. He reaches for his broad shoulders first. Then he imitates Sherlock’s movement and lets them travel down his back until they rest on the delicious curve of Sherlock’s butt. Sherlock sighs and kisses him again, harder this time. John pulls Sherlock’s pelvis to him. _Oh God, that’s his cock I am feeling there, Christ…_ Sherlock’s finger slide into the waistband of John’s jeans, opening them and stripping them down with his next move. John pushes them down with his feet, steps out and strips his open shirt from his shoulders.  
  
“You’re beautiful, John,” Sherlock gasps, “beautiful and perfect.”  
  
John is lost for a reply, he can't recall the last time someone called him beautiful. He opens the first button of Sherlock’s shirt along with a whispered “May I?”  
  
“Please,” Sherlock begs.  
  
So he opens Sherlock’s shirt, undoes his cuffs and lets it fall on the floor. The room is dark except for the dim golden light from the candles and lanterns in the garden. Sherlock’s pale skin seems to glow in the golden haze. Sherlock breathes heavily as John opens his belt and his dark, ridiculously well-tailored trousers and shoves them down. John can’t see the colour of Sherlock’s underpants, something dark, but they feel silky and tempting and hot under the tips of his fingers. He brushes over Sherlock’s hard cock. Touches it more tightly, he wants to feel him. Sherlock takes a stumbling step backwards until he leans against the locked door, his chest heaving. “Take these off, John.”  
  
John does and once Sherlock is naked, he strokes Sherlock’s cock, caresses its shaft, spreading the wetness on its head. Sherlock moans and kisses him fervently. The intensity of Sherlock’s reactions fuels John’s desire. He strokes Sherlock some more, just moving the way he likes it himself. Sherlock pants into John’s mouth and when he breaks the kiss, he leans his head against the door, eyes closed. John kisses his neck and then draws a thin wet line from his collarbone to his ear with his tongue. Sherlock groans. With his right hand, he starts caressing Sherlock’s nipples, hard and warm under his touch. Sherlock pants harder, John can see tiny droplets of sweat on his forehead. He lets go of Sherlock’s gorgeous, hard cock and puts his fingers into Sherlock’s mouth. Lets him taste his own precome. Sherlock moans loudly. John’s fingers still in his mouth, he whispers, “Fuck, John, oh, _John..._ ” He draws his name out. “Let’s take this to bed or I will come right here.”  
  
John guides him to bed. Sherlock lets himself fall on the mattress, sprawling across the covers. “Get naked, John. I need to feel you.”  
  
John strips off his pants. Sherlock pulls him close until he lies on top of him, moving his hips against his.  
  
“John, _oh God,_ a bit harder... yeah...” John thrusts against Sherlock, desperate for friction himself and madly aroused. He sneaks his hand between them, puts it around Sherlock’s cock and lets him fuck into his hand.  
  
“Oh God, _John,_ I’m… I’m going to come, I can’t…”  
  
John takes them both into his hand and dives into Sherlock’s rhythm. Sherlock throws back his head and opens his mouth as if to shout out.  
  
“ _Yes,_ come for me, Sherlock. With me, oh fuck, _yes._ ”  
  
Sherlock cries out a broken groan as they come almost simultaneously. John crushes a hard kiss on Sherlock’s mouth, forceful and filthy, which grows softer and gentler with their ebbing orgasm.  
  
“Oh John, John, John, oh God..." Sherlock is completely undone. John takes a moment to look at him. He doesn’t want to ever forget what Sherlock looks like right now. He envies him for his mind-palace. _If I had one I would make this a monumental wall-painting, like Michelangelo’s ceilings in the Sistine Chapel._ A curl sticks to Sherlock’s wet forehead. His eyes are closed. His chest is heaving with his heavy breathing and his pink, plush lips are slightly parted. His hands are still entangled in the linen, he must have grabbed and clenched it during orgasm. His cock is lying on his belly, getting softer, with a base of dark hair. His body is a long, gentle curve, slender, but not skinny. Their semen is smeared over his stomach, glittering wetly.  
  
John is lost for words. Slowly, reality settles back in. He hears laughter and talking from the garden party, the window must be open. The moon has risen and casts a silvery light. He feels an enormous wave of joy rise in him. _God. Sherlock. Here. With me._  
  
He grabs the t-shirt he slept in last night and cleans them up a bit. Then he lies down, nestling into Sherlock’s side, kissing him on his cheek bone. They lie there for a while. With a voice gentler than John would have ever thought possible, Sherlock says, “John. I might be in love with you.”  
  
“You might be? Did you deduce that?“  
  
“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, _however improbable,_ must be the truth,” Sherlock say with a laugh.  
  
“You’re unbelievable, Sherlock.” He kisses him. “But yeah, I do think I might be in love with you, too.” It feels surprisingly right to say this.  
  
“John, there is something I want to do… that I’ve been dreaming of.”  
  
“Ok?”  
  
“I want…” he pauses.  
  
“…me to fuck you?” John blurts out. “Well, I think…”  
  
“Yes, John, I do want that, too, but right now, I’m talking about something else.”  
  
“Oh! Oh.”  
  
“I want to give you a blowjob.”  
  
“Ooooh.”  
  
And Sherlock does give John a blowjob. This time it is John whose body is glistening with sweat, who pants curses into the pillow, who gives whispered instructions (“Sherlock, Christ, yes… use your tongue, yes, like that…”). It is John who comes undone under Sherlock’s lips, who clenches the sheet and cries out Sherlock’s name when he comes.  
  
Later on, they fall asleep eventually, their skin still sticky in the messed up bed. They don’t notice the end of the party or Margaret knocking on the door. “Are you here, boys? Haven’t seen you in hours.”  
  
\---  
  
The next morning, John wakes up early again. There is a light summer rain, a comforting, soothing sound. He wakes fully aware of what happened. Last night’s excitement and anticipation has turned into a feeling of calm contentment. Sherlock is asleep. _So much like last morning. Yet everything has changed._ John brushes a curl from Sherlock’s face, touches his eyebrows, his cheekbones and his lips. Just because he can.  
  
He gets up, puts of his pyjama bottoms and yesterday’s shirt and goes to the loo. When he is finished, he splashes his face with water. He sneaks into Sherlock’s bedroom again, takes off his clothes and glides back into bed.  
  
“John.” Sherlock sounds sleepy.  
  
“Yes, love?”  
  
“Good morning.”  
  
“Good morning, Sherlock.”  
  
“Need to tell you something.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Remember how I asked you to play my boyfriend while we stay at my parents'?“  
  
“Yes, quite vividly.”  
  
“There were more reasons to ask you for that.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“I knew I loved you. Achingly so. And I simply couldn’t bear the thought of my parents asking me why we… weren’t together. Would’ve killed me.”  
  
“Oh, Sherlock.”  
  
“So I thought it best if we just made the whole damn thing up. And I didn’t know how to tell you. About. Me. Loving you.” He sighs. “Sentiment, and all that. So I thought if you felt anything for me, it might… show, while we’re here.”  
  
“Which it did.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Oh, Sherlock. You’re an idiot. Brilliant one, but still an idiot.”  
  
“I know.” He yawns. “But for the record, you’re an idiot, too. You should’ve realized you loved me ages ago.”  
  
With all things settled between them, they doze off for another few hours. When the rain has stopped and Mycroft and Marcus are having breakfast downstairs, Margaret knocks on the door again.  
  
“Sherlock? John? You’re here, aren’t you?”  
  
She turns the knob, opening the door as little as possible and peeks in. Her possibly very naked son and his possibly equally naked boyfriend are sleeping, entangled in sheets and duvet and each other. She smiles. “I knew it.”  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Ruth and Sibyl are very loosely based on Pamela Schwerdt and Sibylle Kreutzberger. They were head gardeners at Vita Sackville-West’s famous garden at Sissinghurst Castle in Kent from 1959 to 1991. The two women had been a couple since they met in dormitory of Waterperry Gardening School in the 1940s. They have accomplished great things at Sissinghurst’s garden, but are rarely mentioned.  
>   
> Vita Sackville-West was famous for having – next to her husband Harold Nicholson – a string of female lovers. I don’t know if Pamela’s and Sibylle’s relationship really was much of a topic. I just took the freedom to write it this way in my version of the story.


End file.
